Sitting

I sit with a pen, let imagination win,

a tragic sensation of patience within

gives amends to instigations of men,

who's souls are laced with inflammation of sin.

Better to begin to ascend out the rejections

of others, projecting reflections of

children and mothers pretending to cover

the eyes from the prized possessions

of lovers. Concessions of flesh and

confessions of sinners enter

and splinter all those who censor

the answers of questions from

cancer to death. In various

cases the planners are left

deciding precarious measures

of standard old theft and landing the best

demanding to test the common mind

of a man taking his steps

down the road we call life

of husbands and wives, not in love,

but lovers stuck in a vice.